Enjoy Your Pie
by mink'prowl
Summary: When Sealand pushes England over the edge, the normally more-or-less responsible nation makes a terrible mistake-until America's Thanksgiving party provides a deliciously convenient solution.


**Enjoy Your Pie**

A chorus of voices followed England as he walked briskly down the hall of the EU headquarters towards his office. Soprano voices sang sad, high-pitched songs about statistics. The alto section accompanied them, but their lyrics spoke of daunting new figures, and discouraging estimates. The base section bellowed the woes of debt crises. England picked up his pace, but the hallway ahead only seemed to grow longer.

Finally, he was close enough to grasp the cold, silver door handle. One turn was all it would take to escape the maddening chorus. A slender hand fell on his arm.

"Excuse me sir," his secretary said, "but Mr. Jones would like to have a word with you. He said it was urgent."

England's thick eyebrows furrowed in frustration and he growled. "Can't it wait till later? I'm on lunch break."

"Yes, sir, I'll tell him that."

England's sweaty grip tightened on the handle and he turned it quickly, opening the door to freedom.

"Wait! Your scone, sir!" His secretary handed him a brown paper bag containing a delectable blueberry scone.

"Oh! Thank you, Kadie." England gladly took it and escaped into the quiet refuge of his office, making sure to lock the door behind him.

The silence was deafening.

It wasn't the biggest office in the building, but it had the finest burgundy carpet, which did a good job of absorbing sound. The matching curtains did an equally fine job of blocking the view of any prying eyes.

The bookshelf on the left side of the room—which was filled with a variety of texts, from a world atlas to an old, beat-up copy of _A Christmas Carol_—and the desk on the right were both made of high-quality mahogany. There was a chair that was meant to go with the desk, but England didn't want to look too old-fashioned. Instead, he'd opted for a more modern swivel chair—which, honestly, he spent a little too much spinning in when important phone calls should have been made.

Unfortunately, England barely had a second to enjoy his time alone before an unpleasant sight greeted him.

"BOO!" A blonde, effeminate young boy in a sailor suit shot up from behind his desk.

Bile rose up in England's throat.

"Haha! I got you! You have to recognize me as a nation now!"

"God damn it, Sealand! Get the bloody hell out of my office!" England's eyes burned like emerald fire.

On the desk, a stern-faced Winston Churchill stared out from his black frame at the quarrelling pair.

"But why?" Sealand whined, "I've been waiting in here all day for you!"

"You've been what?! Why?! No, never mind, don't tell me, just get out of here, you incorrigible twat!"

"No! I won't go until you recognize me as my own nation!" Sealand crossed his arms and glared.

Churchill's unmoving gaze caught England's eyes. For a moment, the old nation felt humbled. He took a deep breath and asked himself, "What would Churchill do?"

Sealand cast his glance to the side and was suddenly distracted by the sight of the slim swivel chair. The young boy sat on it and began to spin around and around and around…

"WHEE!" Sealand squealed joyously as he kicked off the floor to make the chair spin faster.

"Get off! You're going to break it!" England lunged toward him, but Sealand somehow managed to leap out of grasp—flying into the bookshelf in the process. A cascade of heavy books fell on them.

"Bloody hell!" England covered his head, trying to protect himself. The brown bag fell from his hands and the blueberry scone was lost.

Sealand retreated and made a mad dash for the door.

"Oh, no you don't! Get back here, you little bugger!" England followed close behind. He threw his body against the door with a loud slam, preventing escape.

Churchill watched disapprovingly.

Sealand panicked, his eyes darted back and forth as he looked frantically for some means of escape. In desperation, he doubled back, jumped over the desk—scattering important documents like a mess of autumn leaves—and resolved to hide behind it like a man.

The self-proclaimed nation snatched a snow globe with Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster inside of it off the desk.

"D—Don't come any closer! Or I'll, I'll break it!"

"Damn," England snarled quietly. That was a special snow globe. It was a Christmas gift from France—a stupid gift, but it was the thought that counted. "Look here, you little—, I'm not going to hurt you, just please put it down."

Sealand began to put it down, but, as he did, the iridescent, floating white flakes inside nabbed his attention.

"Ooh, it's so pretty! That's Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster, isn't it?"

"Please just put it down."

"Wait," Sealand squinted as he tried to remember something, "The Palace of Westminster, was that were that were Kate and William got married? Oh! I'd love to get married there! Could I? It was so beautiful!"

"That's Westminster _Abbey_, you idiot," England corrected the boy, but was ignored.

Sealand rambled on about his wedding plans and England inched closer and closer to him.

"And I would have a whole orchestra! And the best food you ever tasted! There would be pies, and cakes, and biscuits, and lots of candy! And—hey!"

In an instant, England snatched the snow globe away and stuffed it in his pocket. He jabbed a rigid finger towards the door, "Get out."

Stubborn Sealand scowled back. "I'm not leaving until you recognize me as a nation!"

"No! For the last bloody time, no! You have a population of three and _no _natural resources of which to speak! You're a manmade platform for God's sake!"

"Just because you can't see me for the great nation I am, doesn't mean the rest of the others won't!"

"Ugh, they don't even know that you exist!"

"They will soon! Everyone will! In a few years, everyone will be bowing down to me! _I_ will be number one! I'll have my own cities and skyscrapers and even _my_ _own _Palace of Westminster to get married in!"

"_I've had just about enough of this, haven't you?"_ A unicorn at England's side neighed.

Flying mint bunny appeared out of nowhere and started floating around the room. _"What would Churchill do?" _It trilled.

"_A splendid question!" _An elf riding the unicorn agreed.

England's eyes travelled from the annoying, ranting brat to his old friend's face in the picture frame. He reached out and picked it up. "What would Churchill do?" England asked himself. His grip on the edge of the frame tightened.

"Listen to me! I will become a full nation, whether I get your help or not! So—!"

With a sweep of his arm, England brought the picture to the side of Sealand's face. Jagged shards of glass sunk into the brat's cheek. The back of his head cracked on one of the lower shelves on the book case as he plummeted to the floor. Sweet silence returned.

For a moment, England loomed over him, revelling in what he done. But, somehow, the deed didn't feel quite _complete. _He kneeled down, put an ear to Sealand's chest, and listened to the steady beating of his meager heart.

England straightened up again, then, looked around him to make sure no one was watching. He put down the newly battered, blood-stained picture and frame on the floor next to him. Carefully, England lifted Sealand's head off the floor, cupped his chin in one hand and took his shoulder in the other. There was no way that anyone outside could possibly hear anything that was going on inside the office, but just to make sure, England coughed as loudly as he could as he snapped Sealand's neck. The deed was done.

England fished the brown bag out from under a heap of books and began to eat his crushed blueberry scone. As the crumbs tumbled onto Sealand's motionless body, a sudden realization struck.

"Damn," he whispered, "Whatever am I going to do with this body?" Surely, the discovery of an effeminate, underage boy in a sailor suit in his office would not be good for public image.

Suddenly, a commotion sounded outside.

"I'm sorry sir, but he's on lunch break! You can't go in there now!" England heard Kadie protest.

The silver door handle jiggled. "This can't wait!" America shouted. The handle jiggled furiously again.

England bounced up and immediately dragged Sealand behind his desk.

The door burst open and America strode in.

"Hey! Long time no see! How's it going?" He beamed.

England's heart drummed painfully against his chest. "F—fine! Thank—!"

"Great! Okay, here's the thing! I'm having a Thanksgiving party this Saturday at my place and you have to come!" America beamed.

England gulped, "Yeah! I will! Definitely!"

"Hey, whose hat is that?" America pointed at Sealand's crushed sailor hat on the floor.

Time froze. England's vision blurred as the breath was sucked right out of him.

"Um, Uh, nobody's. Ge—I mean—uh, I'm just holding it for somebody else."

America looked at him funny and a cold sweat broke across England's brow.

"Awesome! Bring something to eat, too, okay!"

"Oh, um, okay!"

"Awesome! See you there! Bye!" America marched out the door and England's shaky breath steadied.

His secretary stood apologetically outside the door, "I'm so sorry sir! I tried to tell him not to, but—"

"That's alright, thank you!" England shut the door behind him, stumbled awkwardly towards his desk and collapsed into the comfort of the swivel chair.

After about five minutes of controlled breathing, he managed to pull himself together and start thinking straight again. The first order of business was to get the mountain of fallen books back on their shelf. England thanked his lucky stars that America's vision couldn't detect books.

It was undoubtedly one of the most terrifying thirty seconds of his life, but at least now he knew what to do with the body.

Under the desk, Flying Mint Bunny sat on Sealand's hidden body, examining the scarlet blooms in his sailor suit and peering into his dim, unblinking eyes. A patch of matted hair near the nape of his neck was stained an ugly shade of crimson. Blood leaked down the little bugger's cheek and onto the floor. Thank God for the burgundy carpets.

. . .

Lights strung up around America's colonial style house lit the place up in the token American colors: red, white, and blue. Fifty star ornaments were hung in each tree on the property.

The fifty million or so stars blinking in the night sky faded as England was driven closer to the luminous residence.

Contrary to England's initial expectations, seeing the large crowd of guests did not bring about any feelings of apprehension or hesitation.

The car pulled up to the curb and England got out, followed by assistants who carried his personal food contribution.

France stood at the entrance, checking guests in and flirting with men and women alike. When the cocky Frenchman caught sight of England, he made sure to peer down his nose at him the whole way. His overpowering, flowery stench was almost unbearable.

"Name please?" France asked suavely.

England huffed. "You know who I am!"

"_Name, s'il vous plait?" _

"_England,"_ he growled in reply.

France pretended to scour the guest list twice over before finally finding and checking off his name.

"Identification?"

"Bloody hell!"

"Hey, England! How's it going, bro?!" America pushed past an irritated France and pulled England through the entrance. "France, you can let them in, too!" America added, pointing towards England's assistants.

France reluctantly let them in, too.

England could feel his enemy's hateful stare on his back as America enthusiastically ushered them to the food table. England laughed to himself. The evening was off to a great start.

A great spread was presented before them on a 20-foot long table covered with a series of red-checkered cloths. Dishes from all around the world were present: gyro from Greece, pasta from Italy, beer from Germany, stuffed turkey from America, of course, among dozens of others. England breathed deeply, delighting in the aroma of an endless feast.

The assistants set down the dishes they had brought on an empty spot on the table.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said England.

"Awesome! So what food did you bring?" asked over-enthusiastic America.

"I brought pie," England replied simply.

At the sound of that, a few nearby nations turned around in shock and then nervously went back to their conservations, as if they didn't want to be chosen to be first taste-testers.

"What kind of pie?" America pressed.

England ignored the zealous host and instead grabbed a small plate and fork he had mysteriously been hiding in his coat pocket. Like a hawk, he scanned the crowd for someone who could try his pie. Someone with a sense of taste…

There he was, nearly hidden behind Cuba's substantial frame and eclipsed by Belgium's distractingly elegant form.

"Oi, Canada! Could you please come here for a second?"

Canada flinched at the sound of name being called. His gaze shifted between England, the food table, and the utensils in England's hands—as he put the pieces together, his face paled. Grudgingly, Canada came forward to meet his fate. Cuba and Belgium watched in distress, like parents watching their child stray too close to the edge of a precarious cliff.

"Yes?" Canada quietly inquired.

"Would you be so kind as to try some of this pie for me? I want to know if I've done a fair job." England cut a small slice and smiled as he held it out to Canada, who looked like he'd rather do a number of other unpleasant things than eat the pie.

Canada slowly reached out and gingerly took the plate. "So, you made this yourself?"

"Uh-huh," England nodded.

"What kind of pie is it?" ventured Canada.

"It's a meat pie."

"Really? What kind of meat?"

"Uh, turkey, naturally," England's face burned red as he took notice that everyone was watching them.

Canada gave the pie one last once over and shuddered. He stabbed a sliver off of the pointy end and gradually brought to his mouth. At last, he bit down and chewed. His eyes were pinched closed, waiting for the inevitable gag reflex.

But in a strange twist of fate, Canada swallowed the piece! The whole crowd gasped when he actually had another bite! Italy fainted dramatically.

"Like, oh my God," Poland murmured, totally flabbergasted.

"Wow, it's, it's," Canada paused and turned to the watchful crowd, "It's actually good!"

England frowned, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Nations flooded towards the food table, eager to get a piece of the astonishingly palatable pie.

"It is a Thanksgiving miracle!" Japan exclaimed.

Laughter and joy warmed the atmosphere. For a perfect moment, old grudges were forgotten, wars were ended, and there was world peace. To England's delight, no one noticed that the meat tasted more like chicken.

The only person who didn't like the pie was France. In his piece, he had found a golden hair sticking out of the crust.

"Please help yourselves!" England shouted ebulliently, "There's plenty for everyone!" He chuckled blissfully as his pie was devoured by all.

_Yes, you twats, enjoy your pie…_


End file.
